English

Behold the feeble deer, what war they rage;
In timid breasts what baleful furies rage!
For death reciprocal each forehead bounds;
In mercy, feeling Cæsar, send the hounds.

“Some old song!” his master cried; and so
'T was Love he carolled of.
“Some new song!” his lady sighed, and lo,
He sang to her of Love!

Lay the little limbs out straight;
Gently tend the sacred clay;
Sorrow-shaded is our fate—
Baby died to-day.

Fold the hands across the breast,
So, as when he knelt to pray;
Leave him to his dreamless rest—
Baby died to-day.

Voice, whose prattling infant-lore
Was the music of our way,
Now is hushed for evermore—
Baby died to-day.

Sweet blue eyes, whose sunny gleams
Made our waking moments gay,
Now can shine but in our dreams—
Baby died to-day.

Still a smile is on his face,

It was a lovely lady
With manners of the best;
She was finely educated
She was exquisitely dressed.
With a topic philanthropic
She arose to fill her place
In the program which was builded
For to elevate the race
She arose with highest purpose
Her noble best to do—
There were seven other ladies
Who were on the program too

The lady read her paper
Till her hearers wore a frown;
The chairman was a lady
And she would not ring her down;
And when the chairman hinted
That her limit long was o'er

A violet dusk hangs softly o'er the Bay,
And golden evening, amorous of the day,
Watches the purple waves that sing afar
Where glows the radiance of an early star
That bashful-eyed, gleams fitfully in the sky.
A Springtime blossom-scent is in the breeze,
While towering, sentinel-like, the cypress trees
Loom loftily on the hills. One sunset wing
Floats far above, and amber shadows fling
Their rich tints on the sea's edge, glistening white.
Dusk gathers fast,—and with the blue day's flight
There falls the speechless wonder of the night.

In A quiet water'd land, a land of roses,
Stands Saint Kieran's city fair:
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
Of the clan of Conn,
Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
There the sons of Cairbré sleep—
Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses
Now their final hosting keep.

Good-by, sweetheart, our days of bliss,
Sealed by love's pure and sacred kiss,
Are ended in tears;
We part—the dream is o'er,
Good-by, sweetheart.

I may not meet thee of old,
But oh, how can we live apart,
God knoweth best, God help us both
To live and say
Good-by, sweetheart.

I ought to be joyful, the jest and the song
And the light tones of music resound through the throng;
But its cadence falls dully and dead on my ear,
And the laughter I mimic is quenched in a tear.

For here is no longer, to bid me rejoice,
The light of thy smile, or the tone of thy voice,
And, gay though the crowd that's around me may be,
I am alone, when I'm parted from thee.

Alone, said I, dearest? O, never we part,—
For ever, for ever, thou'rt here in my heart:
Sleeping or waking, where'er I may be,

Alone, I live alone
And sore I sighe for one.

No wondre thow I murning make,
For grevous' sighes that mine harte dothe take,
And all is for my lady sake.
Alone, I live alone.

She that is causer of my wo,
I mervel that she will do so,
Sithe I love hir and no mo.
Alone, I live alone.

Thus am I brought into lovers daunce;
I wot never how to flee the chaunce;
Wherefore I live in great penaunce.
Alone, I live alone.

My minde is so it is content
With hir daily to be present,

We ramble on, the stream and I,
Still singing, still companionless;
We run to find, beneath the sky,
Some arid spot, some life to bless:
The brook is dreaming of the sea;
But I, fond spirit, dream of thee.

The brook's bright waters flow and flow;
All lush and green his track appears,
And it is given me to know
Some choral of the chanting spheres:
Our lives are tuneful as the birds,
With rippled song and gentle words.

And if, sometimes, we lurk apart
In secret grot or covert dale,